


Nuntius Transitu

by Crumbledown (VerbtheAdjectiveNoun)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Blood, Broken Bones, Bukkake, Detention, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Languages, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Potterlock, Public Sex, Public blowjob, Rimming, Seduction, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter 'verse, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threesome - M/M/M, Vouyerism, accidental violence, getting caught, note passing, simulated masturbation, underwear play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerbtheAdjectiveNoun/pseuds/Crumbledown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is bored. Why not seduce the Potions Master? John Watson can help, if he likes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Showing Off Impresses Nobody

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing you recognize is mine. The only thing that's mine is the Nuntius Transitu spell. Harry Potter's universe and characters belong to Queen Rowling; Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; my sick fantasies belong to me.
> 
> \---  
> less than 24 hours after posting this I'm making a few more edits. Forgive me please.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t bother knocking and entered Professor Snape’s office without announcing himself.  The professor didn’t look up as his petulant student forcefully grabbed the back of one of the two chairs in front of Snape’s desk and pulled it noisily across the stone floor. He threw himself into it in a full sulk. He kicked his heels up to the wooden desk, and just before they landed they were caught by a wordless levitation charm.

Snape said nothing, still focusing on the potions journal on his desk, his wand held lazily in his hand.

“You’re not to use magic on students, Sir.”

Snape let go of the levitation spell and Sherlock let his heels slam hard into the corner of the desk, rattling and nearly upsetting Snape’s inkwell.  A spare quill fell to the floor.

“Take your feet off the desk, Mr. Holmes.” Snape turned the page with about as much interest as Sherlock had in being there. Which was none at all.

He let his feet fall loudly to the floor and dragged them under his seat.

“Tell me, Mr. Holmes, where you went wrong this evening, and exactly what it was in the last thirty seconds that has earned you another week’s worth of detentions?”

“I’ve annoyed you,” Sherlock said without a hint of shame.

“You’re more perceptive than that. I’m certain you can tell me exactly how it was that you’ve managed to annoy me.” Snape brought his eyes up from the journal on his desk and looked at him from beneath his furrowed brow.

“I didn’t knock. I didn’t announce myself. I made a loud and annoying noise with the chair. I disrespected your property by trying to put my feet on your desk. I called you out for inappropriate use of magic on a student. I disturbed the items on your desk. I made more noise. I commanded your attention with petulance. You will be even more annoyed once I point out you have sentenced me to a total of six detentions with you. Your annoyance will peak, however, once I tell you that I will be using these detentions to seduce you for my own entertainment.”

Snape only raised an eyebrow in doubt.

Just as Sherlock arched his back and reclined in his wooden chair with a hand on the top button of his white school shirt, there was a knock at the door.

He casually relaxed, his hand fell into his lap after dealing with that pesky top button and raised his own eyebrow sardonically at his professor in reply, as if issuing a challenge.

“Enter.” Professor Snape said loudly, keeping eye contact with the lanky Hufflepuff who was tilting his chin and subtly arching his back.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Professor Snape,” said an unfamiliar voice, sounding like he only partially meant it.

“Spare me your apologies and sit down.”

“This doesn’t change my plan, you know.” Sherlock said as the other student took a seat beside him. The shorter, stocky blonde beside him shot a glance. No one ever took that tone with Snape.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes!” The boy blurted out upon recognizing him, as if he didn’t share at least three classes a year with him, and had done for the last seven years.

Sherlock rarely deigned to interact with the students around him, not since his first year and he’d been given more trouble than his efforts were worth. He was known as a loner around the school, and every batch of first year girls quickly got over their crushes on him once the horror stories reached them. Or once they tried talking to him.

He’d been accused of applying legilimency on students and teachers alike at the tender age of 11. He’d forced three Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers out of their positions by his fourth year. He would spy on everyone he had a chance to. He was in league with the Death Eaters. He had made a deal with the reincarnation of Merlin for the power to know all the secrets every person he met. From truth to outrageous, the rumors ran rampant about him. They all rang with the same message, in the end. Avoid Sherlock Holmes, because he will know everything about you and announce it- loudly.

“Well spotted. Now, don’t tell me,” Sherlock started, but was interrupted by Snape.

“You are not here to impress me, you are not here to impress him, and whatever you were thinking of doing had better stop before it starts or I will have you expelled, Mr. Holmes. We have a uniform standard, and I expect you to uphold it. Button your shirt and put your tie back on, you are here for punishment and not your own leisure.”  

“As for your punishment, you will work on your missed Potions essays, Mr. Watson, as you failed to hand the last two in. Be grateful I am giving you an opportunity to make the mark up, and ample time to do so.” He magically forced the two boys back a few feet while seated in their chairs and conjured up a table for them to share.

“But he’s obviously just out of the hospital wing, how could you expe-“ Sherlock started, but was interrupted again by Snape.

“And you, Mr. Holmes, will be writing lines. I think, ‘Showing off impresses nobody’ is suitable.”

“Boring.” Sherlock said, sounding every inch of 18 years old. Writing lines? A repetitive task with nothing to show for it was a sure path to destructive insanity.

“You want an interesting detention, Holmes? Would you rather scrub out cauldrons, or help Mr. Filch with cleaning the toilets?”

Holmes glanced at the boy settling beside him, getting his text, parchment, quill and ink set up. Could he…?

“I’ll take the lines, if it’s all the same. Sir.”

“If it makes your punishment any more interesting for you, though I don’t see why I should cater to your constant need to be entertained, you can write your lines in Latin.” Snape rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe he was even suggesting it.

The blonde boy piped up, “Does Pig-Latin count?”

Snape turned his cold stare to him, causing the boy to shrink down in his seat a bit and issue a soft, “Sorry, Sir.”

Sherlock suppressed a smirk. Nothing impressive, yet it took some guts to speak out of turn like that, glibly even, towards Professor Snape. He couldn't think of a single other person other than himself who might even dare. 

“Get to work. I will tell you when you are done. Do not think that either of you have done yourself any favors thus far this evening.”

Sherlock reached into his bag for his writing supplies when Snape conjured what he needed onto the bit of table in front of Sherlock.

“These have been treated with a non-duplication spell, so you will have to write every word of your punishment.”

With a much put upon sigh, Sherlock began writing.

_Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo._

Suddenly, the words _how did you know I was in the hospital wing?_ appeared and just as suddenly disappeared off the parchment. He kept writing.

_Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo._

_n/vbl w/less Nuntius Transitu_ flashed underneath his incomplete line.

Sherlock concentrated on the words _nuntius transitu_ as he carefully formed the letter O, and watched it disappear. A non-verbal, wandless spell; he was impressed.

 _How did you know?_ appeared again on his parchment, directly below the line he was writing.

 _You smell of disinfectant. You’ve recently lost weight. You’ve not been in class. You’re paler than usual. Most of all, though I may not attend the games, even I heard that one of Gryffindor’s beaters got knocked off his broom. How did you find this spell?_ It took a fair amount of concentration to write one thing and think another, but it was better than passing notes under the large nose of the man overseeing their detention.

_That’s incredible._

_Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo._

_That’s not what people normally say._

_What do they normally say?_

_‘Piss off.’_

Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye rather than heard the boy’s small huff of laughter, his body twitching as though a silent hiccup had passed through him. He glanced up through his eyelashes at Professor Snape, who was still engrossed in his potions journal.

A few minutes passed in silence, but for the scratching of quills and the soft turning of pages.

 _I’m actually surprised we haven’t been caught yet._ He wrote to the boy.

_Why’s that?_

_Listen to my quill. Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo. And now it sounds different. There’s a pattern to the same phrase being written over and over, and the sound my quill makes differs when I deviate._

_Now that I know to listen for it, it seems horrifically obvious. Luckily mine isn’t so obvious as I’m just writing an essay. Well. In a fashion._

It was Sherlock’s turn to chuckle silently. 

 _What do I call you?_ He asked.

_Inmate #2_

_Mr. Watson?_

_John_

John continued writing; Sherlock listened for variances between his messages to him and his note taking. He thought he could hear John’s writing slow to send him a note, but nothing appeared on his parchment.

_Ostentationem print nemo. Ostentationem print nemo._

“Blast,” John said quietly and scratched out the last few lines of his parchment.

“If you are incapable of working in silence, Mr. Watson…”

“Sorry Sir. I just want to make sure I get this right.”

“None the less. There is no need for your expletives.”

“Sorry Sir.”

_It’s hard to write one thing and concentrate on the spell._

_I thought so. I can tell when you are writing me. You slow down. Try not to. I’m trying to write in the same sort of pattern as my lines. Can you tell? Every 22 nd letter is very rounded for the O. _

_That’s amazing._

Sherlock felt his face grow warm and he pulled at his tie a bit. Snape paid no mind, and the lanky brunette slowly loosened his tie to a more comfortable degree and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt again. John took his cue from him and slowly mimicked his actions, gaining no attention from Snape.

_You sounded like you were threatening him after I came in._

Sherlock risked a quick covert glance over at John, innocently scribbling away at his essay. There were so many wild rumors about him, if he told him the truth and John decided to spread it around… well, at least it would be entertaining to mark the student’s reactions when he was known to have detentions with Snape at least monthly.

_I was threatening to seduce him._

John’s quill stopped completely. Sherlock continued with his lines. John beside him, however, stayed completely still.

“Mr. Watson, is there a problem?” Snape asked acerbically after several moments.

“No Sir. Just… just thinking about my next point here,” John’s voice broke slightly. Another moment passed and he continued to write.

_ARE YOU MAD?_

_I’ve been accused of it from time to time._

_How the hell were you going to manage that?_

_You’re welcome to watch. Or join in._

Sherlock’s non-writing hand rose from the table and began stroking his collar bone absently after unbuttoning his school shirt a bit more. He shifted a bit in his chair and stretched upwards and backwards, languorously both arms in the air.

“Sit still, Mr. Holmes,” Snape admonished without looking up.

Sherlock froze in his stretching pose, causing John to giggle quietly. Snape looked up to see John Watson flushing and only getting darker as he tried not to laugh at the antics of the boy beside him, sitting absolutely still, locked in a stretching pose. Both boys had loosened their ties and rolled their sleeves up, though Sherlock’s tie was significantly looser and his shirt was unbuttoned lower than most of the female students would try to get away with. The plunging V of his unbuttoned shirt afforded the view of white, creamy skin stretched over lightly defined pectorals. Holmes was shock still with his head tilted far back, exposing his neck to the warming air of the dungeons, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed once for effect.

“Get back to your lines, Mr. Holmes,” Snape said irritably.

“Well which do you want? He’s sitting still, isn’t he?” John muttered under his breath. The problem with muttering under one’s breath in a deathly silent room is that however unintended, the mutter is usually heard with full clarity.

“Mind your business, Watson. You’ve got another detention. Holmes does not need your encouragement. Holmes, desist with your ridiculous posturing and get back to your lines. And for God’s sake, put your shirt back on.”

“He’s wearing a shirt,” John said without thinking.

“Watson, you are spending the rest of the week in detention. Mind. Your. Business.”

By now, Sherlock had moved back down into a more natural sitting position and was slowly working on his buttons. He bowed his head slightly and was looking up at the Potions Master through heavy lashes. He stroked his chest gently as he did up each button; his lips were full and parted. When he had his professor’s attention again, the raven haired boy dampened his bottom lip with a slow moving tongue. Snape’s only reaction was to tighten his grip on his potion’s magazine.

“Whatever you are intending on, Mr. Holmes, will not work. I’ve got half a mind to set the rest of your detentions with Mr. Filch,” Snape said with finality. He shook his journal vigorously and went back to it.

_You really are insane._

_He’s not reading. He is watching me. Not what I’m writing. Look._

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John look up briefly at the Potions Master, and just as quickly duck his head back town. He loosened his tie and kept on writing his essay, not confirming or denying Sherlock's claim.

 _Has he looked away yet?_   He prompted.

_No._

Sherlock’s non dominant hand fell off the table and into his lap, where he started to draw a large, repeatative design on his own thigh. He knew what it would look like from Snape's standpoint... his shoulder and arm was moving in a fashion conducive to masturbation. He smirked to himself as he forced his breathing to quicken. He was incredibly aware of the two sets of eyes staring at him, as he continued to write.

His breathing was the loudest thing in the room, fingers brushing fabric was the second. The room was quiet enough for him to hear one of his audience lick their lips, and at that Sherlock stopped and gave a tiny, false shiver. A calculated rumbling sigh left his chest, lending the room to a tension nigh on unbearable.

“Mr. Holmes. How many lines have you written?” Snape said suddenly.

“May I have a moment to count, Sir?” Sherlock’s voice was deeper than before, as he brought his hand back up from his lap and bit delicately at his thumbnail, in contemplation… or perhaps giving the illusion of cleaning his hand with his tongue. 

Snape sighed, as if to say ‘If you must.’

A few moments later, Sherlock announced he had written two hundred and thirty seven instances of _showing off impresses nobody_ in Latin.

“You may both leave. Holmes, leave your parchment with me. Watson, I expect you to have that essay completed by the end of your detention tomorrow.”

Sherlock waited for John as he packed up his books and parchment. Their shoulders bumped once or twice companionably, until John turned to head up to Gryffindor Tower and Sherlock continued towards the kitchens. Neither made mention of their next detention together, of their sweaty palms, of their burgeoning erections, or of anything at all.

 


	2. I Must Respect Authority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's plans for seducing Snape are put on hold, while he tries to work the extra participant in the room to his advantage. It doesn't take much work, truth be told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Hogwarts belong to Queen Rowling. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir A.C. Doyle. My sick fantasies belong to me.

Sherlock barged into Snape’s office without knocking and without announcing himself. He flopped down into the chair half side-ways and let it slide several inches closer to John, who had already unpacked his books and parchment. He didn’t lift his heels like last time, but sat petulantly, waiting for Snape to address him; however he kept on marking the pile of paperwork beside him. The impatient Hufflepuff cleared his throat obnoxiously.

Snape continued to ignore him. With an annoyed scoff, Sherlock pulled himself from his seat and left the office, back into the drafty corridor. He let the door swing closed behind him and waited a beat before knocking.

“Enter,” Snape droned.

Sherlock swaggered back into the office and sarcastically announced, “I apologize for being late, Sir.”

He flopped back into his chair beside John, letting it slide again until his shoulder bumped the other boy's. He made no effort to move from the close quarters. John was sitting on the left hand side of the desk, which made sense as he was left handed. Sherlock had heard him negotiate with other students for the left side of the desk so their elbows wouldn’t knock as they took notes.

John’s right hand was in his lap, picking nervously at the inseam on his knee.  

“You’ll be writing lines again today, Mr. Holmes. _I must respect authority_. French, if you must stave off the tedium of English. Begin.”

Parchment, quill and ink all appeared on the desk, in front of where his chair originally was. Instead of moving and giving John his space back, Sherlock dragged the papers towards himself.

_Je dois respecter l'autorité. John. Je dois respecter l'autorité. Did you know? Je dois respecter l'autorité._

_I had an idea that you should maybe attempt a facsimile of respecting authority. I’m shocked you still have use of your limbs after that._

_He’ll threaten, but he won’t do anything. He offered me an apprenticeship earlier this year. I’m debating on it._

_Then why the hell do you want to sleep with him? He’ll rescind his offer!_

_I rather think he won’t, whether I’m successful or not. But to be honest, you’ve surprised me._

_That must be rare, being surprised._

_Indeed it is. I’ve not heard hide nor tail of a rumor surrounding my intentions towards our dear Potions Master._

_Were you hoping to?_

_Definitely not. Je dois respecter l'autorité. Shit. I still haven’t quite got the hang of writing my lines between writing to you._

The room was silent but for the scratching of quills during their exchange. Snape would occasionally mutter under his breath, phrases such as, “You idiot. Try it and you’ll get yourself killed.” And, “Are you even using your brain at all?” as he marked the small pile of papers in front of him.

Sherlock lightly brushed his hand against John’s thigh, pleased when he inhaled sharply.

_I suppose you would have a fair amount of experience. Snogging, heavy petting._

_I’ve not done bad for myself._

_Care for some more?_

_Oh, God yes._

Snape gave a particularly exasperated sigh at one of the essays at this point.

Sherlock ran a finger up his own thigh, making the movement obvious so he could re-catch John’s attention. He pulled it across the taut muscle of his leg, the perfectly pressed crease of his school trousers.  He ran his finger down along the crease again slowly, and brought it back up towards his groin. He worked slowly but closer and closer to the inseam riding his inner thigh. He brushed his penis with his thumb, and shifted in his chair to get a better angle at his inflating cock.

John's breathing became ragged as he started to follow his lead.  Out of his peripheral vision, Sherlock watched as he started to lightly touch and massage his inner thigh. The gesture sent a surge of blood to his prick, which stiffened further beneath his thumb and against his leg. Sherlock ached to touch John, to have John touch him, their hands on each other to do this, to tease and arouse each other as Snape remained unaware... but still expecting an attack.

_Glad to have you on board. I knew it wouldn’t take much._

_What made you think that?_

_You could have told someone. You could have gotten angry and blown the whole thing open. You haven’t avoided me, though you haven’t gone seeking me out- yet. You defended me against him. You didn’t move away when I sat down today. But most telling, your posture screams for me to touch you._

Sherlock reached towards John’s leg again, more deliberately than before. The boy radiated heat. He felt John’s muscles tense beneath his fingers, and felt a thrill as goose flesh formed on the other boy’s arm.  John took a deep, steadying breath, nodded minutely and continued writing his essay.

John brought his hand back up to the table and leaned forward, as if to obscure Sherlock’s arm from Snape’s view. They shifted closer and closer to the sides of their seats, until they were thigh to thigh; he was practically sitting in John’s lap. John was almost panting as Sherlock trailed his fingers up and down. He reached closer and closer to the increasingly large bulge at the apex of John’s thighs, teasing himself nearly as much as he felt he was teasing the poor Gryffindor.

Snape was engrossed in his marking, and took no notice at all as John exhaled sharply as Sherlock boldly ran his fingertip from root to tip of the other boy's groin. Sherlock withdrew and placed his hand directly on his own engorged cock, the fabric of his pants and trousers restraining it painfully against his thigh.

 _Clear your throat._ Sherlock commanded on paper. As John faked a cough, Sherlock smirked as it turned to a genuine sputter as he used the sound to disguise the sound of opening his zip.

“Mr. Watson?” Snape asked, his tone more annoyed than concerned. He did not bother to look up from his marking.

“Sorry sir. Throat’s just a bit dry,” John croaked. Sherlock restrained his smirk as best as he could, looking at John with false concern as he shoved his fingers into the gap of his trousers to better touch himself. He tried to force eye contact with the blonde boy as he carefully stroked himself through his pants with two fingers, but John was a bright red hue and shyed away from his gaze.

Snape flicked his wand carelessly and a goblet of pumpkin juice appeared before each of them.

“Thank you, sir,” John said as both boys reached for their drinks. Sherlock sipped delicately in contrast to John’s desperate gulping. He kept his fingers within his fly, keeping his arm perfectly still as his fingers moved with increasingly exaggerated movements in the confines of his trousers.

Sherlock suspected John was trying to ignore him at this point. John was pointedly refusing to look at his ministrations but his erection had obviously not abated. He had to step up the ante if he was going to keep John in the arrangement. He did not wish to completely alienate him, however he desperately wanted to have his full attention, to make the allure of what he was doing too much to reject.

It was exciting with two audiences- John being fully aware of his debauchery and Snape, Snape who knew of Sherlock’s plan but not of John’s participation.  Though Sherlock warned him he would not give up, he’d not tried anything further towards their professor. As if he knew he was being thought of, Snape looked up from his papers and Sherlock felt his gaze burning through the top of his head. He looked up and met Snape’s eyes, stroking himself all the while. He could feel the flush in his cheeks darken as his glance at Snape turned into a staring contest. John shifted constantly, very likely incredibly aware of the sudden divergence in attention between the two men. Sherlock’s right hand moved automatically as he maintained eye-contact, writing the same four French words until they lost all meaning.

_Je dois respecter l'autorité. Je dois respecter l'autorité._

He needed more. He drew himself carefully and slowly out of his trousers, but remained quite firmly in his pants. His cock pressed against the Y-front of his dark grey briefs, and he touched the flesh directly through the small gap. His movement had been slow but deliberate, and John’s breathing grew more erratic. He used his pinky to pull the Y open and exposed a larger sliver of flesh to the quiet room. Sherlock maintained his eye contact with Snape, who seemed unaware of the extent of debauchery behind the table… but there was no way he couldn’t know something was going on. John was nearly giving him a full detailed account just by the way he struggled for breath.

 _You’re killing me._ John wrote to Sherlock.

 _You like it._ He responded.

_God help me, yes I do._

The admission made Sherlock’s cock bob, and he became precariously close to popping right out of his pants completely. He didn’t think John was quite up to being pushed so far, and though Sherlock needed him there sooner than later, he maneuvered his clothed prick back into his trousers.

Snape went back to grading his papers, ignoring Sherlock as he took a few loud gulps of pumpkin juice to disguise the sound of his zip going back up over his aching cock.

_You’re a bloody tease, Sherlock Holmes._

Shit. John would have been able to handle it that day, after all. Sherlock made a note not to underestimate John again.

_It can be your turn, next detention._

They sat side by side, thighs pressed together as John reached back down to touch himself, matching pace with Sherlock. It was never enough to get off, and it became quite obvious that John was becoming desperate after several long, agonizing minutes that felt like hours. He reached over and stroked John through his trousers once, with the tips of his fingers, amazed at the heat.

"How many lines have you written today, Mr Holmes?” Snape asked, causing John to jump. The involuntary action made Sherlock rip his hand away from John as though he’d been burnt.

He used the moment he took to count to collect himself. 

With that, the boys were dismissed. Again, Sherlock waited for John as he packed up, slower than last time due to positioning himself behind his bag as he tidied up his work station and handed his completed essay over to Snape. The boys walked slowly together, each holding their backpacks conspicuously low over their groins. They shared a glance before going their separate ways for another evening.


	3. Patience is a Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drops his quill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Hogwarts belong to Queen Rowling. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir A.C. Doyle. My sick fantasies belong to me.

John had been jittery all day. He carefully planned his clothing the night before, feeling silly and foolish. He wasn’t dressing to impress, but rather for accessibility and discretion. _Easier said than done,_ he thought. As he headed towards the dungeons, a set of footsteps joined him and his pulse raced even faster. Sherlock’s shoulder bumped against his, and he was not sure if it was intentional or accidental, but rather decided he didn’t care either way. Through layers of clothing, Sherlock’s touch sent a tingle shooting from the point of contact.

John paused at Professor Snape’s door and raised his hand to knock, just as Sherlock pushed it open and let himself in. He dithered for a moment, and compromised by catching the door with his foot, keeping it open and knocked all the same.

“Enter.” Snape said, as always. Sherlock had pushed his chair right beside John’s once again, and was already waiting for Snape’s assignment of lines, as the writing supplies had already been set out for him.   

“You finished your essay on Draught of the Living Death last detention, did you not, Mr. Watson?” Snape asked as John sat down, his thigh pressed heavily against Sherlock’s as he settled.

“Yes, sir. I still have the essay on Polyjuice Potion to work on,” he replied.

“You have today’s detention and tomorrow’s to work on it. Mr. Holmes, you have lines again. _Patience is a virtue_. Italian.” Snape glanced at the pile of paperwork beside him and sighed heavily, obviously not looking forward to the task. “You may start.”

_La pazienza è una virtù. Does that look right to you? What does he mean by setting me ‘patience is a virtue’?_

John had to stifle a laugh. He’d barely jotted his name and title down and Sherlock was already writing him.

_Maybe it’s because you just barge your way in? You didn’t bother waiting for me to knock? You never seem to wait for anything, especially when it’s the polite thing to do._

_But it wastes time. I have things to do. Why shouldn’t I want to get things done as efficiently as I can? La pazienza è una virtù._

Sherlock still seemed to have some difficulties with keeping his line writing apart from his messages with John, but he didn’t mind. It was Sherlock that would have to re-write his lines, after all.

_It’s just manners, Sherlock._

Sherlock pressed his thigh against John’s with less than innocent intent. His hand slipped off the table and landed directly onto John’s leg. Sherlock curled his fingers against the soft fabric of John’s trousers, a size too large for him. He gently tickled the inside of John’s thigh, and slowly drew those long digits up the inseam of his trousers.

_No beating around the bush today, Sherlock?_

_No purpose. I just told you, I have things to do. You know what I want, you know what you want, I know what you want, and Snape will not remain ignorant. While I don’t mind drawing this out for him, I’d much rather have you completely on board than toeing the line._

John gulped loudly as Sherlock’s pinky made contact with his testicle.  Snape sighed with irritation and three tumblers appeared and were filled with a silent Aguamenti charm, same as the day before. He didn’t even bother looking up.

He wrote the beginning paragraph of his essay while Sherlock wrote his lines over and over in one hand, and gently kneaded John’s bullocks with the heel of his palm and fingertips. As John hardened, Sherlock’s attentions shifted northward and gripped his prick lightly through his trousers and pants. John grabbed his cold water and sipped at it, trying to bring the heat down from his face.

 _How is it that I can have so much blood rushing to my head and my cock at the same time?_ He wrote to Sherlock, as his zipper was toyed with. Sherlock’s hand in John’s lap froze as Snape cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

_Judging from your position on the Quidditch team and your over-all health, I would put your resting heart rate at 60 to 70 beats per minute. When exerting yourself, your heart rate can jump up to 110 to 120, leading to a flush across your face. However, when embarrassed and aroused, judging from the pulse I can see in your throat and what I can feel in my hand, your heart beats at roughly 165 beats per minute. Increased blood flow allows for diversion to both prick and face. Voila._

John twitched hard as he read the truth of it- his prick in Sherlock’s hand. If last week he’d been told that he’d be spending detentions under Severus Snape with his penis in Sherlock’s hand, he probably would have laughed in that person’s face, then hexed them with Jelly Legs for good measure. But the truth of it only made him harder, filling Sherlock Bloody Holmes’ hand. Sherlock’s wrist started twisting as he gently jerked John through two layers. This went on for only a few moments, until dexterous digits searched for the pull of John’s zip.

Sherlock cleared his throat obnoxiously as he unzipped John, and he reached for his water as though to prove to Snape he really didn’t mean to do it on purpose. Sherlock’s hand stopped and hovered for a moment before the gaping hole in John’s trousers. He had an excellent view of the red pants laying beneath, and the rigid cock beneath those.

_La pazienza è una virtù. How Gryffindor of you. Brace yourself._

With that, Sherlock fumbled quite dramatically with his quill, which slipped out of his grip and fell off the table. He glanced up at Snape with a false wince and shrugged innocently, acting like an average clot. He was treated to an eyeroll and a lazy wave. ‘Go and get it,’ the message relayed and received.

 

\--

Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees under the table and caught notice of Snape’s legs splayed lazily open. He had his own hand down in his lap, squeezing gently at his crotch. A surge of arousal hit Sherlock like a bludger to the chest. Snape pulled his zip slowly down revealing a secret. No pants. Dark pink flesh pushed forward, his shaft too long, too thick, to fit through without additional maneuvering. Snape trailed a finger down his shaft, which pulsed, but made no effort to dislodge himself fully. Opposite Snape, almost directly, John sat with his thighs splayed open, his equally erect cock straining against bright red cotton, his right hand on his knee clenching and worrying his trousers. Sherlock had only been down there for a few moments, but the musky scent of aroused student and teacher combined knocked him dizzy not to mention the sight of two cocks begging for his attention.

He rolled the quill a bit closer to Snape. He left the cover of his shared table with John and crawled beneath his professor’s desk. The tables were of alike height and width, pressed directly together, hiding his travels from one side to the next. So distracted was he, he did not even consider his abandonment of John; John had never really been his intended target, and despite the unexpected attraction and kinship. John knew what Sherlock’s end-game was, and if it was being offered so freely…

Sherlock gently brushed his arm, almost innocently, against the pant leg of his mostly- nearly-exposed Potion’s Master. His heart raced, a strange combination of arousal, fear and anticipation caused him to shiver. Snape shifted slightly, his leg searching out the wayward student under his desk. The movement of his leg shifted his trousers, and Sherlock could see the frenulum of Snape’s prick, white with pressure and strain against the zip. He was directly between Snape’s legs now; the smell of his professor’s arousal was overwhelming. Sherlock carefully circled Snape’s surprisingly skinny ankles with his hands and dragged them up his calves, hiking the black trousers up as he went. Snape shifted again, his engorged member strained even harder against his flies, looking nearly painful. Sherlock’s mouth watered. He took a fortifying breath and leaned forward to the apex of Snape’s thighs. Sherlock let go of Snape’s calves to grip around his knees and licked firmly at the straining member. The dark flesh pulsed and pushed towards him the same instant Sherlock’s tongue made contact. Snape was salty, with a hint of some sort of potion ( _numbing cream?_ Sherlock wondered briefly). Sherlock placed a filthy, wet kiss on the underside of the offered flesh, prepared to offer so much more when he remembered… John. He kissed the underside of Snape's penis once more, as though saying goodbye before scuttling back quickly to his side of the desks. John’s knuckles were white with tension. _Shit._ Snape hadn’t made a peep, nor had he moved again.

Sherlock touched the blond boy's ankle, before nuzzling into the strangely comforting red of John’s pants, his cock still firm. He’d been on fire, under Snape’s desk, but now that he was back under his table with his peer, he was calmer. His hands were shaking, but the more he nuzzled against John’s ever hardening cock, the more soothed he became.

There was no way he could have spent so much time under the desk, NOT touching John without John becoming suspicious of what was happening. There was no way he could have spent so much time after acquainting himself with Snape’s cock getting out from under the table without Snape getting suspicious. Not that raising suspicion was a terribly bad thing, but the implications between the other two could be… horribly awkward. _Which could be a positive thing, in the long run,_ he mused.

\----

John was completely on edge from the moment Sherlock ducked under the table. He knew that he should expect a hand, or breath, or even a tongue to touch him, but moments and moments went by. A quill rattled on the floor under the desks, as though it’d been nudged further from him and closer to Snape. He glanced up at his professor, who was staring blankly at the paper in front of him. As John broke into a cold sweat, Snape looked up and locked eyes with him. John nervously licked his lips but did not break their gaze. Snape’s dark eyes bore into his own, his lips parted as he breathed a little harder. Oh God, what was Sherlock doing? Why wasn’t Snape getting angry, throwing his desk and papers over? John’s imagination went into overdrive, thinking of all the things Sherlock might be doing to the man staring unrepentantly at him. He was frozen in excitement, and … jealousy.

John broke first, and glanced down at his papers, mouth dry and heart pounding. Snape gripped his quill and quickly scribbled something down on the essay he had been marking. A small flash appeared on his parchment and Sherlock’s lines at the same time. He read small, spiky words before they disappeared, _he doesn’t need to know._

What did he mean, he didn’t have to know? _Oh God._ Snape could read the messages the entire time. Snape knew. Snape… didn’t want Sherlock to know he knew?

John remained hypnotized by the empty patch of paper that had held Snape’s secret. He clenched his hand as his cock somehow got even harder than ever before, and suddenly there was a light touch at his ankle. His crotch was suddenly attacked by a sharp cheekbone and snub nose. It took all of his will power not to tangle both hands into the mop of hair sure to be attached to the gorgeous face rubbing all over the front of his pants. He looked back up at Snape, who returned to staring directly at him. John was very aware that he was blushing. Suddenly, the nuzzling stopped. A hand delicately zipped John back into his trousers, and the mad man between his thighs pulled away.

As Sherlock crawled out from under the table, he was distinctly disheveled.

“I think that’s enough for today. You may both leave.”

As they left Snape’s office together, John said, “I think that’s the shortest detention I’ve ever had. I only wrote a paragraph.”

“I forgot my quill.” Sherlock said in response, with a cheeky grin. His silver eyes sparkled mischievously in a way John had never seen before, and they burst into fits of laughter that gave them cramps and tears flowed freely. When they composed themselves, they parted ways to their respective dormitories, still giggling like idiots.

 John felt a twinge of guilt as he watched the Hufflepuff boy chuckle as he walked away towards the kitchens, not knowing what he knew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I mentioned my head canons about housing. 
> 
> So. John is a Gryffindor. I've made Sherlock a Hufflepuff. Why? My reasoning is thus-
> 
> I believe a Hufflepuff isn't so much a reject, as a person who would fit in equally well in any other house. Not that they aren't good enough for Gryffindor or Slytherin or Ravenclaw, but rather they are a perfect fit for each. So, Hufflepuff house for those individuals whom it's too difficult to place otherwise. That's my belief, anyway. If you don't like Sherlock being a Hufflepuff, then just pretend it says Ravenclaw or Slytherin or Gryffindor. Only then John would have to be in a different house, if Sherlock were a Gryffindor, so just... change things how you like in your head. My head canons aren't your head canons, after all!


	4. Jag svär högtidligt att jag är upp till något bra.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Snape have a moment. Sherlock and John have a moment. The author breaks tradition and names her chapter in Swedish thanks to Google Translate.

John sat through Potions with his heart up in his throat. He avoided the attention of Professor Snape throughout the entire period. It was his last class of the day, and two short hours later he’d be sitting in his office with Sherlock by his side. As class finished, Snape asked him to stay behind for a word. The Slytherins all crowed “OooOOOoooh.” 

_As if they knew the half of it._

He stood stoically in front of Professor Snape’s desk, looking past the foreboding man’s shoulder until the last of the students filed out. As soon as the door slammed closed, John’s knees began to shake minutely; his hands had been drenched with sweat for the past hour, and suddenly they’d gone clammy.

Snape rose from behind his desk and slowly circled around towards John. He stood close to him, smoldering at the Gryffindor from his superior height. While John avoided eye contact throughout the lesson, he now could not peel his gaze from Snape’s face. He took in as many details as he could- the deep furrow between heavy and dark brows, his shapely-yet-thin upper lip, the crooked bend of his enormous nose and greasy flanks of black hair cascading around his pale face. He was not physically attractive man, but there was a depth to his eyes that awed John. He wondered what they would look like when Snape smiled. He thought of the stark contrast of Sherlock’s blue and silver eyes, and wished he was here with them. John licked his lips as his knees shook and his eyes locked steadily with Snape’s.

Steeling himself, John took one step closer to Snape and wrapped his arms around the taller man’s neck. He sharply rose himself up onto his toes and pressed his lips firmly against Snape’s mouth feeling more terrified than he had in his life. Snape’s mouth remained unyielding for a moment, before moving against John’s as if against Snape’s better judgment. Their mouths remained closed even as Snape pulled John closer to him, pressing their chests together.

It was completely without passion, and it was beyond strange.

John Watson was kissing Severus Snape, and Severus Snape was kissing back, in a very recently deserted classroom and their kiss was missing something. They both knew it. The intense energy between the two of them while Sherlock went on his little adventure under the table aroused John more than the kiss. Snape just wasn’t as appealing without Sherlock acting as a catalyst… and John suddenly was awash with guilt. It felt very much like he was trying to claim Sherlock’s prize for his own, but he had no real desire for the man unless Sherlock himself was present. This kiss belonged to Sherlock… but was it John’s kiss, or Snape’s kiss that he had the unspoken claim to?

“You knew the whole time,” John said without accusation as they pulled apart. He lowered himself down onto flat feet, but left his hands resting on Snape’s shoulders. Snape’s own hands slid down and rested on his student's hips. No desire lingered between the two at the present moment, but the contact was not unwelcome. 

“You saw every word we wrote.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t stop us.”

“I did not. You didn’t tell him.”

John flushed.

“No. I didn’t.”

"And you won't tell him."

John let go of Snape as though he'd been burnt and took a step back. Snape left the room quietly and into his adjoining office where John and Sherlock would be joining him in a few short hours; John watched him go. He continued standing at attention in front of his teacher’s desk for a few seconds longer before taking his leave.

 

_**\--** _

__

Sherlock sat in the Great Hall for dinner and watched John closely, who was unusually jumpy, starting violently when the students beside him would laugh too loudly, or nudge him with their elbows. The moment he managed to catch John’s eye, Sherlock stood and subtly tilted his head towards the door before making his exit. He soon joined him in the foyer, looking discomfited.

“Do you know where we can talk?” John asked without preamble.

He was hesitant to talk to John outside of class or detention. Given from their few, but highly intense interactions over the past few days, he worried that they would get rather carried away and… well. He thought of the comforting bright red pants and the firmness that they held. His eyes slowly slid down John Watson’s body, taking in his athletic build and body language. John was completely tense with anxiety, a far cry from the excited and aroused fashion that he was getting accustomed to.  Sherlock sighed and pushed himself from the wall he’d been leaning against. He led them swiftly down a corridor and found a disused classroom.

As soon as they were inside, John spelled the door locked and pressed his back against it.

“Muffliato,” Sherlock murmured as he pointed at the door. He sat down on top of an abandoned desk and waited.

“Good one, cheers.” John shifted nervously and obviously didn’t know where to look, or start.

“Get on with it.” Sherlock was getting impatient.

“It’s my fault. I thought… I thought the spell would only work for us. I…” John started to stammer through an explanation, but halted when Sherlock began to smile.

“I… what? Sherlock. No, this is serious. Snape…” John stressed, but was interrupted.

“Snape has been fully aware of our conversations from the start. I thought he might be, but there was no way to confirm it. There was no other directive in that spell other than the Latin for passing notes. He was in rather close proximity to us, so I’m not very surprised that the rather general spell allowed Snape read what was going on. I was a bit surprised he hadn’t called us out on it if the spell worked the way I had assumed, despite my efforts at making my messages sound like my lines. My only questions are where you got the spell from and how did you find out Snape was listening in?” Sherlock brought his legs up and crouched on the surface of the desk, looking very much like a demented bird.

“I… when you dropped your quill. Snape wrote me a message.”

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow and rose his hands up together under his chin, giving John his entire focus.

“It said, ‘He doesn’t have to know.’ And today after class, he held me back. And. Uh. And.” John started to stutter. Sherlock’s stared intently allowing him no lenience. He knew what must have happened, given the waves of guilt rolling off of John and the tell-tale sign of pressing his lips together as if trying to replicate sensations, but he wanted to hear it directly from the horse’s mouth. Besides, John was frankly quite attractive when flustered, and Sherlock wasn’t inclined to look away when it only made him more flustered.

“I kissed him, and he told me not to tell you.” John mumbled to his chest.

Sherlock exhaled slowly as he crushed down the twinge of annoyance he hadn’t been available to witness it. Immediately, he grinned mischievously at John as a plan suddenly took shape in his mind.

"I have an idea, but it requires a bit of subterfuge. It’ll be fun,” Sherlock grinned.

“You aren’t angry at me?” John’s voice cracked nervously.

“Why would I be angry? You said you’d help me seduce him. If anything, I’m a bit chuffed that it happened outside detention and I couldn’t watch.”

John laughed with relief and the stress in his shoulders melted away. He should have known that Sherlock would have liked to see that interaction for himself, rather than get jealous.

“I doubt you were his first kiss, and I doubt I’ll be his last. I’m not some 12 year old girl with grandiose ideas of romance, John.”

“Thank Merlin for that.”

“He doesn’t have to know…” Sherlock murmured Snape’s message under his breath. “But now I do.”

With a grin that only meant trouble, he continued, “I have a proposal. He doesn’t have to know I know that he knows.”

“I think you would have lost any lesser mortal, but I think I know what you mean. You'll take high, I'll take low?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. By the way- where _did_ you get the spell from?”

John’s modest flush and silence gave him away.

“It’s quite clever John, but it could do with some work. But we’ll deal with that later. We’ve got a detention to serve,” Sherlock said, sounding happier than any student in the history of Hogwarts had about the prospect of detention with Severus Snape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akuma_River caught me out and did a bit of detective work (and urged me to post my next chapter already!) and totally guessed a thing. I told her more answers may be in the next chapter, but I can't guarantee everything will be answered straight away. Sorry, not sorry :3
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I'm sorry I'm so slow with posting this. If you weren't aware, I've recentlyish joined the Dashcon administration team, and I'm working full time with like 15-45 minutes over time every day, and I'm going to be doing a panel for Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy at Dashcon, and I've been commissioned to write another fic which should have my full attention, AND I've been commissioned to do some artwork for a friend (that I'm struggling with...) plus Fangirling over the massive Cumberbatch explosion and lots of Pokemon. I mean, I obvs have my priorities but they aren't always straight. 
> 
> I'm going to bed. I'm sorry for rambling at you guys in the notes section here.


	5. I Must Apply Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes high; John takes low.

They walked to Snape’s office together in companionable silence. John held a finger up and pressed it against Sherlock’s chest once they reached the heavy wooden door. He knocked twice and waited for Snape to answer, keeping contact with Sherlock’s chest. He pushed into John’s hand, but John kept firm.

“Enter."

John pushed open the door, followed it inside the office, and continued to hold it open for Sherlock.

“Aren’t we gallant, today?” Sherlock asked sarcastically as he passed through the entry.

“No, it’s called being courteous and hoping to pass some semblance of good manners along.” John admonished.

“Though I’m sure his mother appreciates your fruitless efforts Mr. Watson, I would much more appreciate expedience into your chairs. Now.”  Snape said from a massive pile of parchment. There seemed to be more and more piling up as their detentions went on, and John felt strangely satisfied as he realized they were distracting him to the point of falling behind. Their detentions usually weren’t for much longer than an hour or two, or the memorable only-minutes-long one yesterday.

The table was still in place from the day before, and the boy’s chairs were in the exact position they’d left them. They were incredibly close together on the left side, leaving a large expanse of desk on the right. The left chair, as it was, looked particularly crowded. Snape had already conjured glasses of water for the boys, in some strange farce of saying their dry throats were the most distracting thing about their detentions. John wondered what he’d see if he were to duck down and look under the table, which was starting to look like an extension of Snape’s desk.

“Mr. Watson, continue with your essay. Mr. Holmes, your lines will be ‘I must apply myself.’” Snape ordered without looking up. The boys smirked and shared a glance. He was enjoying himself quite a lot, it seemed.

“In plain English?” Sherlock asked.

“Old,” was Snape’s terse reply.

“Does that mean he can just spell stuff however he likes, Sir?” John asked, unable to keep the cheek out of his tone. This earned him a nasty glare from Snape. John decided that meant, “Why yes, of course,” and gently nudged Sherlock in the ribs, daring him.

The boys settled at their shared table, not bothering to push their chairs apart. John shifted in his seat several times already half hard, waiting for Sherlock to start.

He waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

He was actually getting his homework done; only at the cost of his sanity.

And patience.

Nearly half an hour later, words finally flashed across the page of his essay; John’s heart leapt up into his throat.

 _Aye muste appli misself.  John, what color are your briefs today?  
_  
John kept on writing his notes.   
  
 _John?_  
  
 _John?_  
  
 _John?_  
  
 _Fine. They are blue today, alright?_  
  
 _Mine are too. Do you want to see?_  
  
 _Yes._

Sherlock's hand slipped under the desk as was becoming the norm. His arm only moved slightly as he began to stroke himself through his trousers. Sherlock feigned ignorance to Snape’s knowledge of their correspondence. John carefully considered his own replies. He didn’t want to write with hesitation, but he wanted to get the point across to Snape that whatever ambiguous responses he wrote to Sherlock’s more explicit demands and questions was for his professor's benefit.

 _Keep doing that for a bit._ John remained vague.

 _I’ll stop touching myself if you don’t start._ Sherlock threatened. His arm stilled and his hand curled into a fist on his thigh.

John’s right hand quickly and deliberately moved down into his lap, as he continued writing with his left. He leaned back in his chair a bit as he started to draw lines up and down his groin with his fingertips.

_Is that better?_

_Yes. Will you show me your blue pants?_

John fiddled clumsily with his zip until his navy blue boxer briefs protruded obscenely.

_Oh. I thought you meant actual blue._

_What do you mean? These are blue._

_They are nearly black. I’m a bit disappointed._

_Well next time I’ll charm them into mood pants._

John kept the same light, lingering touch trailing up and down his cock. Feeling emboldened, he slipped a finger into the opening of his boxer briefs, directly caressing satiny skin. His hand was familiar and comforting, but the intense atmosphere between he and two other men was twice as arousing as his touch. Sherlock made a strange little noise in the back of his throat as he blatantly watched John’s fingers wiggle into the gap of his briefs. Snape rocked forward in his seat and shifted his hips at the sound, but resolutely kept both hands on his desk- a quill in one hand and the other gripping fruitlessly at the flat surface it rested on.

 _Can I see yours?_ John wrote.

Sherlock reached for his glass of water and drank heavily as he opened his trousers for John. Old habits were dying hard.

_Those really ARE blue._

Sherlock’s cock was hard and leaking as it struggled in its robin's egg blue confines, begging to be let out. John could see the damp patch quite clearly, Sherlock's pre-come turned the fabric a shade or two darker at the point of contact.

 _Eye nust ahpli mineselfe. Do you think Snape has a big cock?_  

Snape took a deep inhalation. He must have realized that he was going to give himself away to the boys, because he started muttering darkly in relation to the parchment he was grading. The corners of said parchment, however, were starting to curl and smoke.

“Sir?” John gestured vaguely at the smoldering parchment. The smoke suddenly dissipated and the parchment straightened. Snape ignored John completely, while Sherlock sniggered. Surprisingly, Snape kept his head down and did not admonish either of them.

 _Massive._ John wrote. A thrill struck him from his crown and down into his toes when Snape grumbled further. It was more moan than anything.

_Look at his hands. They are perfectly proportioned. His stains and scars give them character. I love watching them in class. I think they are beautiful._

John paused for a moment and looked carefully. Snape’s left hand was laid across the top of a bit of parchment, while his right was busy with a quill dipped in red ink. While they were stained and scarred, Sherlock was absolutely right. Snape’s fingers were long and slender, matching perfectly with the narrow width of his palms. His fingernails were carefully trimmed back into neat ovals, though stained yellow from years of working with various ingredients used in potions. They had stilled slightly, as though allowing John to take a better look but upon shifting his gaze to Snape’s face… John realized he was looking at his own hands, as if trying to see what Sherlock was talking about. He supposed it was an odd compliment, but that didn’t account for the perplexed glare his hands were currently receiving. John felt an odd tug in his gut, as he thought that Snape honestly couldn’t see the validity of Sherlock’s compliment. Maybe of any compliment. The confession was obviously not intended for him to read, which only leant to its sincerity.

_I never really noticed, but you’re right._

Snape’s brow twitched into a deeper frown, but quickly relaxed. He pursed his lips for a moment, and went on with his work.

Sherlock and John continued with their work. John worked his wrist so his first two fingers and thumbs were in the gap of his pants. He gripped his cock and slowly started rolling his foreskin back and forth over his blunt head. He was leaking, slicking down over his head and inside his foreskin. John felt Sherlock staring as he played with himself in his pants. He pulled his dampened, glistening fingers out and rested his hand palm up on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s pinky grazed John’s forefinger, transferring John’s slick pre-ejaculate from fingertip to fingertip.

Sherlock rested his elbow on the table, leaned forward and rested his cheekbone across his knuckles as he wrote _Yie noste uppli misulfe._ Though Sherlock’s hand blocked the movements of his pinky and mouth to John, there was no doubt that Sherlock had tasted him.

John reached for the bright blue pants poking out of Sherlock’s trousers, the head of his prick nearly saturated. Sherlock’s leaning forward onto his hand did John the favour of his movements being partially obscured which was, in essence, a completely pointless façade. He touched up and down Sherlock’s legs, tantalizingly close to his clothed and bobbing cock. 

_For Merlin’s sake, John. Just fucking touch me._

John kept up his light teasing touch, not giving into Sherlock’s demands.

_I want to know what happened yesterday under the desk._

The three scratching quills suddenly became two. Snape huffed noisily through his nose as his left hand gave up the battle of remaining stationary on his desk quickly fell to his lap, much to John’s satisfaction.

_I wish you could have seen. He was touching himself._

John rewarded Sherlock by sliding his damp, shaking fingers into the gap of his vibrant blue pants. The skin hiding beneath was hot and smooth- his cock was so similar to John’s, maybe a little slimmer and a bit longer. John felt himself twitch in tandem with Sherlock when the unmistakable sound of a zip resonated through the air.

Sherlock continued worrying his pinky nail between his teeth as he wrote his lines, another man’s hand on his dick. John tried to concentrate on writing his essay while his fingers got slicker and slicker against Sherlock’s cock. He didn’t have as much foreskin to play with as John had, and John thumbed the weeping head with increasing regularity.

_He unzipped himself while I was down there. He wasn’t wearing pants._

_Did you see it? Was I right?_

Sherlock’s writing started to deteriorate as John carefully drew him out of his pants, his blushing, wet dick exposed to the electrified air in the room. John could feel Sherlock’s racing pulse in the well defined veins of his cock. If Snape were to stand at that precise moment, he’d have a perfect view of John’s hand wrapping around Sherlock’s girth, slowly jacking him off, though he was certain that if Snape were to stand to watch, John and Sherlock would see he was as equally exposed.

_He’s so thick he couldn’t fit through the gap. He just let himself press against the front of his trousers. It looked uncomfortable. I had to go lick it._

_That’s what took you so long? I thought you’d gotten lost._

_That’s absurd John, how could I get lost under a desk?_

_Never mind._

John’s hand sped incrementally as his grip firmed. Sherlock’s breathing got heavier, faster as John’s hand pumped at his cock. The hand Sherlock was resting on quickly became a white knuckled fist. His arm shook against his volition, gently rattling their mostly abandoned glasses of water. There was an answering rattle from the other side of the desk.

 _I wish we could just share his desk with him. All of our knees touching. Can you imagine if I'd dropped my quill in those circumstances? I'd force myself between you, jerk you both off. I’d love to see your faces as you stared at each other, knowing you were both being pulled, not speaking about it. Pretending like everything was fine. Pretending like I wasn’t down on my knees between you with my cock out, wishing desperately for a third hand._ Sherlock’s writing was nearly illegible.

_I want to come like this. In front of you. In front of Snape. I could. I could come right now, John, if you let me._

The room was heavy and silent but for Sherlock’s scratching quill, three sets of lungs pulling in air, a gentle rattling of three glasses of water on a wooden surface, the swish of moving fabric and a very, very faint wet noise emanating from opposite sides of their shared work space. The nearly silent wet slapping was the loudest thing John had ever heard. He could not look away from the paper in front of him, splashing words around and taking them away.

_I want to push back from this table and take you with me. I want to push your head down into my lap and let Snape watch as you swallow me down. I want him to see you touch yourself as you let me fuck your mouth. I want to see him masturbate while watching us. I want the three of us to come together. I’m gonna-_

John’s quickly turned his head to watch; Sherlock’s prick hardened even further as he messily ejaculated in John’s fist, a particularly ambitious throb of his cock sent a stray emission straight upwards, marring the yellow and black of his tie with a white streak, unmistakable for what it was.

He didn’t even whimper. His hand tightened around his quill, and the knuckles he rested cheekbone on went white. As he finished, Sherlock unclenched his fist from his cheek and ran his hand through his curls. John’s hand was soaked, and he continued to softly stroke Sherlock in an attempt to transfer the mess back to the owner.  A quick glimpse at Snape proved their audience was nearly at the point of no return himself; Snape was hunched over his desk, resting heavily on his forearm as his other arm worked hard under the table, his eyes focusing intently on the parchment.

_You should know it’s not like moisturizer; you can’t just rub it in till it’s gone. I’ll give you 10 galleons to lick your hand clean._

_I’m not a whore and I don’t want your money._

John brought his dripping fist up to his mouth and feigned concentration on his parchment. Sherlock’s scent was delicious and overwhelming, directly under his nose and only centimeters away from his mouth. He peeked at Sherlock, who was putting himself away with a smug grin, and then at Snape, who was obviously trying not to stare at the misbehaving boys. John’s face burned red as his tongue darted out to clean the other boy’s mess. He was getting dizzy from arousal, his cock bobbed hard in the confines of his pants, and the salty flavor of Sherlock’s come only made it worse. Snape was now silent and no longer moving, tense as he leaned  over his desk, a wet dripping sound resonated from under the desks- he’d sprayed the under of his table so hard that gravity beckoned it to the floor. Snape’s eyes were hooded and glazed, as he blatantly stared at John’s mouth until the mess in his fist was completely gone.

“You’re dismissed,” Snape announced breathlessly. John was still poking out of his pants, and he made an effort to zip himself back up as quickly as he could without being totally obvious- he didn’t know why he even bothered, but he couldn’t imagine the alternative. As he tidied up his workstation with his left hand (as his right one was still struggling with his zip), one last note flashed across the bottom of the parchment.

_Don’t see to yourself if you can help it. I’ll take care of it. Midnight, near the kitchens. Wear the red pants._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW two chapters within 24 hours of each other. 
> 
> This chapter underwent a MASSIVE overhaul, holy crud. Especially the ending. I had like 3 more chapters written, but due to the huge changes, those will need to be re-written.


	6. Labanan sa pasilyo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wandering the halls at night can be dangerous.

Sherlock stood lazily against the wall in an alcove near the kitchens, gently stroking his chest through his robes. Beneath those, he was nude but for a pair of eggplant purple boxer briefs, and his black and yellow Hufflepuff tie, still stained from detention. Behind his facade of boredom, he was nearly vibrating with excitement- sex itself wasn’t the greatest stimulant, but the game he was playing was fascinating. How far were the three of them willing to go before finally admitting they all knew what was happening? What, exactly, was the allure of feigning innocence when all three of them were anything but?

It was nearly midnight. He allowed his robes to fall open slightly, exposing his bare skin to the chilly air, his nipples hard from cold and excitement. Sherlock licked his lips and rested his head on the hard wall as he crept his hand down lower, lower, tickling the dark trail of hair traversing into his purple boxer briefs. His robes opened further as he rubbed himself through his pants, and brought his other hand up to his chest, stimulating his nipples again, feeling as though he may well just die of anticipation.

Soft, cautious footsteps soon approached. “Sherlock,” John’s hoarse voice whispered.  He moaned wantonly, quietly in response. Sherlock would have been blinded, had his eyes already not been closed when John turned the corner into his hiding spot. The soft white glow permeated his eyelids and he whispered, “Turn that bloody thing off before someone finds us.” Sherlock continued to palm himself and pinch his rosy nipples, knowing he was the cause of John’s suddenly audible respiration.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Nox.” John whispered. The light faded and he opened his eyes again, having long adjusted to the darkness.   His eyes fluttered shut again immediately as John captured his wrists and pinned them to the wall beside his shoulders- his mouth suddenly hot and hungry against Sherlock’s, kissing him ferociously, over and over. He moaned as John bit his bottom lip, hard, before sucking it into his mouth. Sherlock found himself spreading his legs and slumping down the wall to bring him closer to John’s height.

“Merlin, you’re fucking insane, Sherlock,” John panted quietly against his mouth as he straddled Sherlock’s thigh, grinding his impressive erection against Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock bucked against him, rubbing on John’s leg. John’s grip on his wrists tightened as he ravaged Sherlock’s mouth again.

Sherlock easily twisted his dominant hand out of John’s and tangled it in the shorter boy’s hair, grasping the slightly shaggy locks. Though for all his ferocity, John was very sparse with his tongue, preferring to use his lips and teeth in short, quick bursts.  Sherlock approved of his method wholeheartedly- Vigour was appreciated, whereas tonsil Quidditch was not.

John tasted of muggle cigarettes and firewhisky and spearmint toothpaste. Cigarettes to calm himself, firewhisky to steel, and toothpaste for snogging. Sherlock wrangled himself out of John’s grip and managed to pin the shorter boy against the wall instead. John’s hands roamed over Sherlock’s exposed chest as he began kissing the sides of Sherlock’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw, manoeuvring his head awkwardly. He pressed up hard against John and tilted his head, offering access to John’s goal; Sherlock’s neck.

John bit and kissed and sucked on Sherlock’s neck, his stubble scratched him deliberately and deliciously. Sherlock was quickly realising that while he was having quite a lot of fun with John in detention, he had been craving _this_. Subterfuge was excellent kinky fun, but overtly taking and being taken without abandon; the same amount of passion and force and _want_ they shared was perfect.

Sherlock spoke quietly into John’s ear, his voice deep and husky. “I want you, John. I want to push you onto Snape’s desk, knock all of his bloody grading on the floor. I want to kiss you and touch you, exactly the way you like it. You won’t have to tell me how, I’ll figure it out.”

 John’s breathing became even more laboured as he panted against Sherlock’s throat, grinding harder and harder on his hip.

“I would be able to feel your pulse through your cock, and it would tell me everything. Listening to you breathe, feeling your muscles tense beneath my hands or my mouth... your body would tell me more than anything you could hope to tell me. But trust me, John. The moment you say no is the moment I stop.”

Sherlock took John’s ear into his mouth and inhaled sharply; a nasty trick in his arsenal to turn anyone’s knees to jelly- and it worked. John’s legs shook as he struggled to stand, desperate not to show Sherlock exactly how affected he was. He gripped Sherlock around the waist and shoulder under his robes. The hand on Sherlock’s shoulder pushed downwards, and Sherlock happily obliged.

“Did you touch yourself after detention?” Sherlock whispered as he dragged his body down John’s torso before landing with his knees on the cold stone floor.

“I haven’t. I’ve been aching ever since. I’ve been so hard all evening. Please, Sherlock. Please. I had to pretend to have a stomach ache at dinner time, I couldn’t bear going into the Great Hall like this,”  John’s hands grasped desperately at his shoulders and neck, his fingers finally deciding to tangle in the riotous mop of dark curls on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock untucked John’s shirt from his trousers and ran his digits along the soft skin at his waist. John shivered violently and Sherlock continued his torture, sliding his hands down John’s thighs, pulling the fabric of his trousers taut and highlighting John’s thick erection. John moaned quietly, but it was still loud enough to echo in their small alcove.

“Shh, John.” Sherlock whipped off his tie, reached up and shoved it in John’s mouth, forgetting about the dried come still decorating it until it was too late. A muffled moan escaped the Gryffindor once more, but the tie-gag was sufficiently sound dampening.

The bulge in front of Sherlock took sudden precedence over anything else. He nuzzled John’s groin softly, smiling when the poor thing bobbed fiercely and a muffle moan came from above him. Sherlock ran his nose and lips around the curve of the tent, mouthing at it innocently, causing John to wiggle impatiently, digging his fingers deeper into Sherlock’s hair. Finally, Sherlock unbuttoned and unzipped John.

It was at this point Sherlock heard a second set of footsteps quietly approaching, and he was glad he’d found a way to quieten John, however it felt a shame to do so.

Sherlock reached up and pressed his finger against John’s oddly stretched lips and silently shushed him. John caught on quickly and bit harder on the dirty tie in an attempt to silence himself. He still thrust his hips out, his bulge pulsed hypnotically. It was dark, but Sherlock could still tell he was wearing the comforting red pants from the day before.

John’s scent drove Sherlock’s mouth to water. He licked hard at the damp spot on John’s pants as the footsteps and accompanying white light from a lit wand went past their hiding spot. The intruder wasn’t whispering sweet nothings to Ms. Norris, whom Sherlock hadn’t seen hide nor tail from, and despite the overwhelming musk of John, Sherlock could also smell the distinct combination of various potion ingredients. He hummed quietly against the cloth, just loud enough to be heard. A deep voice whispered “Nox” from just outside the alcove. John bucked even harder.

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of the footsteps, on John’s breathing, on John’s pulse, and slowly brought himself through the gap of his purple briefs the way John had manoeuvred him only hours before,  before releasing John’s cock from its torturous confines, trousers and pants pooling around his ankles.

He sat back on his heels as much as he could with John’s fingers still massaging his scalp, and stroked himself slowly and luxuriously. He opened his eyes to focus on John, ignoring the dark shadow at the entrance of the alcove. John’s eyes were tightly shut; his head tilted far back on the hard wall and was breathing as though he’d just got off the Quidditch field. That was enough. Sherlock continued to fist his own cock as he teased a long, slow stripe up John’s from root to tip with his tongue. John tasted _amazing._ Sherlock whimpered quietly as he reached with his spare hand and held John’s cock steady at the base and placed several small, stroking licks along the head. Sherlock could feel pre-ejaculate sticking to his lips as he pulled away from every caress. He thumbed his own precome and spread it over his head, marvelling at just how similar he and John were at that moment; absolutely desperate.

He lapped and kissed at John’s cock in an exact translation to John’s kisses- quick, hard, more lip and small sucks than drooling and tonguing. By this point, John’s hips were arched far away from the wall as he braced himself with only his shoulder blades and head, his fingers constantly massaged Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock let go of his own erection and grabbed at John’s firm arse without warning. He dug his nails in hard as he gripped at John’s cheek, spreading him slightly as he gave John what he was craving. John’s whimpering ceased immediately as he thrusted hard; Sherlock had accounted for this and moved in tandem to prevent John’s shaft from choking him despite his hand wrapped around the base. He squeezed John’s arse hard in retribution; John’s fingers tensed in Sherlock’s hair and relaxed. Sherlock kept John in his mouth for a short while longer, not sucking or licking, just resting. He received a weak pat on the head, and he picked up his movement again.

God but John was excellent. He’d showered within the past hour, he tasted clean but his natural flavour and scent hadn’t been obliterated. His pubic hair had been trimmed back, and Sherlock released his grip from John’s cock to run his fingers through the short, course strands. He took more and more of John into his mouth; he trailed his digits down onto the shorter boy’s thighs and back up to his bollocks, which sat heavily in his palm. He retained his firm grip on John’s arse as he bobbed his head along John’s length, his free hand travelled and collected data all the while; the back of John’s knee was uncomfortably ticklish, but the back of his upper thigh was deliciously so. John enjoyed having his pubic hairs tugged on, but was wary of having his testes handled too much. And it wasn’t just John Sherlock was cataloguing reactions from.

Their not-so-anonymous voyeur watched them fuck nearly silently. Despite John’s muffled moans and sighs, the slick of smooth skin moving in and out of his mouth and his nearly constant swallowing, Sherlock could still hear their audience breathing. He listened for the swishing of fabric and quickly deciphered a pattern; it was this pattern that Sherlock set his own design. He heard the slow, soft movements of Professor Snape’s cloak as he jacked off in the dark, and Sherlock kept pace. Their audience’s presence was as all encompassing as the darkness they found themselves in.

Sherlock reached up to John’s face once more and pulled the saliva-soaked tie out of John’s mouth, and it landed heavily on the floor behind him as he chucked it over his shoulder. He immediately replaced the tie with his index and middle fingers; John sucked on them enthusiastically as though urging Sherlock to follow suit. As long Snape continued to pleasure himself slowly, Sherlock also took his time.

John bit down lightly on Sherlock’s finger, his teeth caught momentarily on the knuckle of the intruding finger as it began to slide in and out of his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers were becoming recipients to a more vigorous blow job than the one he was giving. Out of a sense of fair reciprocation (a strange new concept to Sherlock) he finally started to provide what John was wordlessly begging for.  Sherlock took more and more of John into his mouth, using his tongue to massage John’s cock as it slid between his lips. John’s fingers curled tighter in Sherlock’s hair, guiding him more and more until Sherlock gave up on massaging John’s prick with his tongue, impossibly aroused by the thorough fucking his mouth- and fingers- were receiving. Sherlock could hear Snape’s movements intensify, the soft swish of fabric speeding and getting louder as he withdrew his fingers from John’s mouth with a soft moan, the vibrations of his deep voice caused John to buck slightly harder- nearly gagging him. Sherlock’s fingers were saturated with saliva, and he quickly brought them down to John’s bollocks once more.

John spread his legs further, and as Sherlock began to run his finger along his perineum in search of his pucker, an unmistakable meow rent through the hallway.

“Stop now.” Snape’s voice hissed in the dark. John groaned quietly as Sherlock disobeyed and sucked harder in urgency, more intent on finishing his partner in crime. Their show had to come to a close, immediately. The curtain had closed. John grasped Sherlock by the ears, using them like handles and fucked his mouth vigorously. They felt as though they were about to be ripped off, and Sherlock squeezed John’s balls a little tighter than perhaps necessary to tell him to back off.  Snape had manoeuvred himself back into this pants judging by the sound of his zips and began walking silently in the opposite direction of Mrs. Norris’s cry.

“Snape! No!” John whispered loudly, sounding utterly betrayed.

Sherlock popped off of John’s cock finally and continued to jack him off in short quick strokes designed to get him off quickly.

“Yes, my sweet? Where are they?” Filch’s croaky voice filled the hallway as he turned the corner, his oil lantern held high into the air in place of the wand he did not possess.  John’s orgasm hit him at the same time the light of Filch’s lantern did- and that is how he found them. Sherlock Holmes on his knees, naked under his robes but for a pair of purple pants that he may as well had not worn at all; and John Watson standing before him, ejaculating violently on the Hufflepuff’s face. Sherlock had started to make a half-hearted effort to cover himself so Filch could not see his indecency, but between the force of John’s orgasm, the rapid beating of his heart, the idea of hexing Snape until next January and being blinded by Filch’s lantern, hiding his dick came quite low on his list of priorities.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Filch spat viciously at the boys as he charged towards them. His nostrils flared and he nearly dropped his lantern in shock at the lurid display. He nearly looked on the verge of having a cardiac arrest.

John bent down too quickly to pull his pants and trousers back up and smashed his face against Sherlock’s semen covered forehead. Sherlock was sickeningly aware of the crunch of John’s breaking nose in his hairline.  Sherlock didn’t have time to brace himself as John staggered forward; his momentarily forgotten trousers still pooled around his ankles tripped him. John went straight over Sherlock in his fall, the weight of John’s lower body forced Sherlock backwards. John’s dick smeared semen all over Sherlock’s face as they fell as Filch looked on in horror.

John whimpered as he rolled to his side, clutching at his face in pain. Sherlock just lay on his back with his eyes closed and his own deflating cock still hanging out of his purple pants, thinking very hard and very quickly about what to do next. He’d hit his head fairly hard on the stone floor; perhaps he could pretend that he was momentarily knocked out?

Before Filch could react beyond his stunned fish impression, Snape’s wand illuminated from the darkness and his voice reverberated in the hall, “Oh for Merlin’s sake. _Confundo!”_

Sherlock opened his eyes to see Filch look generally stunned and confused, as though the scene in front of him made no sense at all. Snape quickly stepped between the boys and Filch to obscure them from view with a dramatic sweep of his robes. Sherlock took this opportunity to tuck himself away and wipe some of the semen off his face. John was still curled in foetal position clutching at his nose. Sherlock tried pulling John’s trousers further up his legs but was John was resistant to all movement, so immobilised with pain as he was. With a much put upon sigh, Sherlock grabbed the corner of John’s robe and wrapped it around him to cover his modesty with a bit more success.

Snape was putting on a bit of a show for confounded Filch’s benefit as Sherlock did the housekeeping as it were- _fighting in the hallway, detentions for the rest of the semester, how dare they, he will be taking care of them and ensure no such tomfoolery-_ blah blah blah.

As Sherlock tried to prise John’s hands away from his profusely bleeding nose, he was vaguely aware of Filch wandering away and bumping into a wall at the end of the corridor. When Filch was out of sight, Snape kneeled on the hard stone floor next to the boys, his brows furrowed in annoyance and concern for John who had been knocked quite senseless.

“Holmes, grab his hands, keep them away from his face. Watson, I’d rather not have to bring you to the infirmary, stop squirming.  _Episkey.”_

John’s face contorted in extreme discomfort for only a moment, and then burst into peals of laughter.

Sherlock and Snape looked at each other in a panic as John laughed and laughed.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done!” He laughed as he slowly sat up.

“And you play Quidditch,” Sherlock replied, laughing mostly in relief that John was actually okay.

Snape made no comment as he watched the boys stand and collect themselves, John carefully, successfully pulling his pants and trousers up. Their smiles were quick to fade as they saw the dangerous glower on their professor’s face.

“I meant it. Detentions. With me. For the rest of the semester. Go back to your dormitories.” Snape pointed his wand at the boys. “ _Scourgify._ ” Sherlock felt what was left of the drying cum on his face disappear, and John’s face was instantly cleared of blood. Snape de-illuminated his wand as he stalked off in the darkness back to the dungeons.

Sherlock and John stifled their giggles with very little success until they went their separate ways. It wasn’t until Sherlock was laying in bed wanking off that he realised he’d forgotten his tie in the alcove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry, I know like about 6 months ago I was all HURR HURR I WANNA UPDATE MORE OFTEN and then NOTHING. NOTHING AT ALL. And this is where I admit-- I had most of this chapter written since like, forever. For a long, long time. I only added the last like 500 words or something today. I know. I know. I'm sorry. I've been insanely busy with work and stuff lately and I've just not had the patience to write, especially since last chapter had changed so much and I wasn't sure which way I was going to go.
> 
> BUT NOW I KNOW WHERE I'M GONNA GO hrurrrhurrrhurrhurrrr I'm excited. OK I'm done being dumb now THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND FOR STICKING ALONG WITH ME. I've made a few MINOR changes to previous chapters just to make them a little better.


	7. Gloves are off.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's really no point in pretending anymore... but something just doesn't feel right anymore.

“Sally? Can I have a quick word with you?” John caught up with his Quidditch Captain between classes. She tied her hair back into a frizzy ponytail as she was wont to do when preparing herself.

Sally was a fantastic student, incredibly intelligent and ambitious and played Keeper on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Unfortunately, excelling at almost everything had painted a big red target on her back, something John always thought was vastly unfair. When Sally was happy or calm or just relaxing, her hair was down. When Sally was upset or angry or thinking very hard, her hair was up. The older she got, the more she proved just precisely how determined she was, the larger the target got and John rarely saw her beautiful springy curls sit around her shoulders anymore. Seeing her pull her hair up at his request made him feel all the more guilty.

“What’s up, Watson?” She sighed as she leaned against the wall. She looked like she knew exactly what he was going to say.

“I can’t do Quidditch anymore,” John admitted quickly; he knew she would appreciate straightforward honesty more than beating around the bush. She sighed deeply.

“I know. I heard you got in a fight with that freak from Hufflepuff last night and landed yourself with a heap of detentions.” She took her hair down and ran her fingers through it carefully. It wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as John thought, but he clenched his jaw all the same when she called Sherlock a freak.

Seeing his tension and completely misreading it, she laughed and said, “Come on, he was probably asking for it, no one here would blame you for wanting to punch his lights out! I’m just annoyed I have to do tryouts for a beater so late in the year.”

And John couldn’t correct her. He wanted to, so very badly. ‘ _Actually **Sherlock** was blowing me while Professor Snape watched and jerked off.’_   But he couldn’t.

“Harry is pretty good with a Beater’s bat. Keep an eye out for her,” was all John could bring himself to say.

“I was actually talking with McGonagall about try-outs on Monday. I figured since you didn’t come running back to me after you got out of hospital with a game plan that maybe you were over it. I know your heart hasn’t really been in it the last few seasons. And I mean... I don’t blame you for what happened last game. I really don’t. I don’t blame you at all for not wanting to play anymore.” Sally reached out and touched John’s shoulder. She smiled sadly at him.

“Thanks, Sally. You’re alright.” John smiled back.

“So your sister, eh? I’ll hold try-outs next week. Tell her to bring her A-game, I’d hate to lose that Watson power.” She shoved him teasingly and walked away.

As John watched her a burden was lifted from his shoulders—but then she walked past an alcove. The alcove. John knew that it was stupid and irrational - no one but Sherlock and Snape knew what really transpired there the night before - but he couldn’t help but feel flustered and red-faced as he followed in her footsteps to class, his heart beating harder and harder as he approached it. It’s not like nearly naked Sherlock was there waiting for him... again. As John walked by the scene of the crime, something caught his eye. Something yellow and black. He ducked in quickly and scooped the tie off the ground and hastily shoved it in his pocket, and ignored the small puddle of dried blood still on the floor. He wondered if he was the only one who could smell sex in that tiny area.

 

 

John didn’t know what to expect as he went into detention after the events of the night previous. He felt oddly calm. His heart was beating normally, his breathing was even, but his ears were ringing, and he seemed to have developed an oddly Pavlovian response to the imposing wooden door to Snape’s personal office. He was hard as a rock. He was early, but no earlier than usual. He knocked on the door and waited for Snape’s sonorous voice to grant him entrance. But it didn’t come. He waited a moment and knocked again, and slowly opened the door.

John entered the classroom which was the same as ever; Weird dead pickled things living in jars on shelves, piles and piles of paperwork on Snape’s desk, and Sherlock’s chair might as well have been stacked on top of John’s, it was so close. Snape looked... distinctly... ruffled... as he sat behind his desk. He lifted a pile of documents and moved them to another pile, looking more like anything that he was hoping to provide the illusion of being busy. John had never seen Snape so flustered before. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and John secretly crossed his fingers he would not be late.

John sat down and began unloading his books and parchment from his bag. He was still running behind in a few of his classes from his time in the infirmary, and he’d finished his potions homework somehow, miraculously. Snape had not assigned anymore throughout the week, and the reason why was becoming quite apparent. John hid a smile when he thought of his classmates reactions if they ever found out he and Sherlock were the reason they’ve had some reprieve.

Long, long minutes passed as John worked on his Charms essay, the only sound in the room coming from his quill on parchment and the annoying tinnitus in his ears. Snape went from absently moving the massive piles of parchment around his desk to marking an assignment to just staring at it. John felt entirely discomfited by Snape’s behaviour as well as Sherlock’s absence. He was surely late by now, yet Snape made no sign of irritation or snide comments at John. In fact, he’d not said a word the entire time John sat there. John’s erection had long gone as the stimulation he’d come to expect from this particular setting was not being provided. He knew from his awkward stolen kiss that masturbating under the table with just Snape in the room would be unfulfilling at the very least.

It was when Snape made a very odd noise in the back of his throat did John _finally_ hear it. And oh Merlin, how had he not heard it before? The ringing was gone and replaced with loud, wet slurps and Snape’s stifled groan. John’s hand immediately dropped down to his crotch and felt his cock swell at the implication of those filthy sounds. He glanced up at Snape who had suddenly lost most of the tension in his shoulders, slumped backwards in his seat, and was breathing quite heavily. The slurping had stopped.

John gave himself a mental pat on the back when he managed not to jump when a set of dextrous fingers wrapped around his ankle and quickly climbed up to his knee.  John slumped back in his chair and spread his legs, still rubbing gently at his groin. Sherlock’s hand joined his, and together they traced the outline of his excited cock.  John slipped his hand from under Sherlock’s and placed it on top.

He felt the flush crawl up the back of his neck and burn the tip of his ears as he looked up at Snape, whom, before, John thought looked innocently ruffled before he realised it was filthy debauchment. He tilted his head back slightly as he slid in his chair, gazing at Snape through long, blonde lashes. He licked his bottom lip and the heat uncoiling in his belly stretched like a spring, his pulse beating loudly in his ears. Sherlock’s long fingers traced dazzlingly complex lines up and down John’s throbbing prick for several seconds, teasing him for only a promised short while. John wet his lips again and Snape casually leaned forward in his seat, as though he could see through the wooden desk between them.

Now the question was... let him imagine? Or show him in the dim light of the office all that he missed in the darkened hall the night before? The decision was easy.

John faked an obvious stretch, his chair slid back several inches against the stone floor, and Sherlock’s hands followed. Snape now had an excellent view of Sherlock’s talented, disembodied hands reaching for John’s zips. The sound of John’s zip was not muffled by awkward coughing or gulping sounds for the first time in the blasted classroom. Finally, finally finally finally finally. He didn’t know where to look, to watch Snape’s face as he was exposed to the open air of the classroom, or down at Sherlock as he had a good, proper look at his cock for the first time. A few flashes with a lit wand hardly counted, nor does nearly jabbing his eye out with it as he fell. Warm, steady light leaves no mystery.

John just couldn’t bear _not_ to watch Sherlock. He slid back several more inches, and Sherlock had no choice but to follow out from under the table.

And John gasped. Sherlock was utterly, utterly naked. The long lean lines of his body left John salivating. He usually looked to be such a skinny bastard, but he was wiry with lean, compact muscle. Pure strength in his pale body and absolute hunger in his silver eyes. His hair had been ruffled fantastically as though large, potion scented hands had been raking through his curls before being forced to look busy doing other things. His cock stood straight out from a nest of neatly kept dark curls, long and lean and oddly powerful like the rest of him, and heavy bollocks nearly grazing the cold stone floor beneath him from his wide kneeling stance. Most of all, his fantastic plush lips and that wicked cupid’s bow were red, and wet, and inviting, and being traced slowly with an even redder, more wicked tongue. 

John was almost envious of the view Snape must have of Sherlock; all strong muscular back and crazy curls, and his delicious ass spread from the ridiculous kneel he forced himself into. John covered one of Sherlock’s questing hand in his own. He divested it from his cock, loathe as he was to do so, and brought it up to his mouth. He sucked on Sherlock’s thumb tenderly, his tongue danced around the soft whorls of his fingerprint, his teeth grazed lightly against Sherlock’s well-kept cuticles.

With Sherlock’s thumb against his bottom lip, John said, “He tastes like you, Professor.” He gazed back up at Snape who looked as though he was about to come undone all over again; He stood and his heavy flaccid cock and bollocks hung out of his flies. 

“Have you got a potion? I mean, you’re not getting any younger, really, are you?” He let his eyes drift downwards. “I’m sure you’d love another round.”

Snape just gripped his cock and stroked it in challenge. _Fuck you_ was evident in his glare.

John just smiled. Sherlock’s fingers wiggled against his lip and John adjusted his grip to the other boy’s elbow, pulling him from his position on the floor. With a smooth manoeuvre, the blonde Gryffindor suddenly had a lap full of naked Hufflepuff. Though John already sat with his legs quite parted, Sherlock straddled his thighs. His testicles hung in negative space between John’s legs, and the rounded head of his cock poked John gently in the abdomen. John reached around and got his hands on the fantastic plush arse that Snape eyed so greedily, still trying to beat his spent cock into command once more.

“Honestly? Listen to John; get a potion. You’re going to hurt yourself. Sir,” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder with a smirk. John just squeezed Sherlock’s arse harder, spreading him even more to the room. His fingers quested closer and closer to his cleft, knowing that in only a few moments, Snape will have quaffed a potion to keep up with the two of them.

Sherlock shifted and squirmed in John’s lap, his knob pressing more and more insistently against John’s stomach, his balls getting pinched between his own body and the crotch of John’s trousers. John forced him backwards, only a touch, to manoeuvre his balls out of his pants and trousers along with his member. His cock stood straight up, so now when Sherlock demanded to push forward, his dick pressed deliciously against John’s own.

Leaving one hand firmly supporting and groping Sherlock’s arse, John gripped their two cocks together and began to stroke carefully. He looked up at Snape who was frowning at his unco-operative cock and he felt a pang of pity. John and Sherlock clearly weren’t doing enough. Though that potion wouldn’t go amiss...

He abandoned their dicks and grasped Sherlock’s arse again and stood up. He carried Sherlock only a few steps and placed him atop their work desk, right on top of his Charms homework which had been so heartlessly abandoned. Sherlock lay straight down, his hips coming just to the edge of his shared table with John, his head landing almost midway down Snape’s desk. Snape groaned as Sherlock reached for his cock, which throbbed weakly.

“Oh, Professor, did you take the potion?” Sherlock said, pretending to be impressed.

“Bugger off, Holmes.”

“Well... yes. That’s the plan.” And with that, he wrapped his long legs around John’s hips with a vice-like grip, forcing John to almost lose his balance and fall directly on top of him.

John took advantage of his new (and somewhat precarious, as he was forced onto his tip-toes) position and began thrusting his cock against Sherlock’s. Sherlock busied his hand with bringing Snape’s cock to life.

John took to kissing every body part he could get his lips on. Sherlock’s sternum, his nipples, his ribs. Sherlock’s intense leg grip loosened and John moved down off his tip toes, and lowered himself lower and lower down Sherlock’s lithe body, sad as he was to lose that delicious frottage.

As he reached Sherlock’s weeping cock, he glanced up and saw two sets of eyes staring at him without abandon. Sherlock was operating at an awkward angle, but his unrelenting grip brought their Professor back to full form (maybe with the assistance of a potion drunk unseen) and both dark-haired men were panting, pupils blown with lust.

John blew gently on Sherlock’s bobbing cock. A long exhalation came out of the naked boy, and Snape groaned as Sherlock’s grip tightened carelessly. John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs, down to his knees and back up again. He ran his hands all the way down to Sherlock’s ankles, gripped them, and propped them up on the table. Sherlock slid further onto Snape’s desk, reaching less awkwardly for their deviant professor. John took in the view... Sherlock’s legs spread wide, his dick pointing proudly in the air, his bollocks hanging heavily, and his fantastic arse lain flat against the table. It wouldn’t do, but it would do for now.

Sherlock’s cheeks were carefully, tentatively spread by John’s questing fingers. Sherlock groaned in excitement and spread his legs even further, eager to show John his pink, puckered arsehole in amongst a tiny nest of sparse, dark hair. Snape groaned as well, utterly ruined forever.

John had never done this before, but Merlin’s beard he was keen to try. His mouth watered at the sight the small pink hole, begging for some company. Though Sherlock was desperate to keep a death-grip on their professor’s ridiculously proportioned knob, John really needed his arse at an attainable position. He gripped Sherlock by the hips and dragged him so John’s goal was level with Sherlock’s feet, his toes curling over the edge of the table.

There was a small mole on the side of Sherlock’s knee that John just had to kiss. It was small and soft and brown and oval and perfect. Soft dark hairs tickled his cheek as he kissed it, and as he continued to kiss and nip slowly down Sherlock’s leg. His hands stayed on Sherlock’s hips and drew small circles, slowly, softly.

 He stared at his classmate, whose cheeks were blushing nearly as red as his cock, positively leaking now. Sherlock gave up his grip on their Professor, who had abandoned his post at his desk and moved over beside John for a better view of the proceedings.

John did his best to give their Professor a good show, and focused on Sherlock as he reached the junction of his thigh and bollocks.

“Kiss it,” Snape whispered softly. John kissed the tip of Sherlock’s cock, a string of pre-ejaculate affixed to his bottom lip, tenuously tethering him to Sherlock. Sherlock’s head rolled back as he moaned after the tiny contact.

“Lower,” the same whispered voice commanded. John lost sight of Sherlock’s eyes as he kissed Sherlock’s heavy, full bollocks. They rose incrementally at his touch as John re-affixed the string from his lip to Sherlock’s own balls.

“Lower.”

John trailed his fingers down from Sherlock’s hips, down his thighs, down his knees and shins. His heart raced ridiculously as he spread Sherlock’s cheeks, just ever so slightly. The brunette was already plenty exposed but not completely accessible, not until John gripped the firm globes of his arse with both hands.

He nuzzled Sherlock’s perineum, rubbed his nose on it gently, kissed it chastely. One of Sherlock’s hands came flying down and nestled in John’s hair, pulling and pushing. John kissed slowly, slowly, chastely, down the bridge between Sherlock’s scrotum and to that delightfully pink invitation. He kissed it softly, all lips. He was in total reverence, and if Snape didn’t like his pace he could go fuck himself. Sherlock’s hand had gone completely tense the moment John made contact, gripping his hair until his scalp hurt- but the pain was really nothing at all.

 Sherlock’s knees threatened to fold in over John’s head, sandwiching him in, but Snape had nothing of it. He stood now directly behind John, his impressive member threatened to hit John on the back of his head.  John’s hands were busy holding Sherlock’s arse cheeks apart, and Snape’s hands held Sherlock’s knees apart. Snape had the perfect view. Sherlock, the little exhibitionist, squirmed under the scrutiny, his penis throbbed impressively.

John continued kissing Sherlock’s arsehole, chastely, slowly becoming more and more urgent, his tongue slipping out and delicately caressing the softening opening. Sherlock let out abortive whimpers at each small lick, and John found himself quietly moaning in response. God, Sherlock was amazing, his arse clenched and relaxed as John kissed it with increasing passion.

“Touch yourself, Mr Holmes,” Snape commanded breathlessly. Sherlock let go of John’s hair and gripped his penis in a stranglehold, and slid his hand up and down at a punishing pace, bouncing his testes violently against John’s forehead. John kissed and licked at Sherlock’s hole filthily, becoming more and more desperate for a spare hand to lend himself.

“Fingers, Mr Watson.”

Sherlock cried, “Yes _, yes,_ do it John!”

John pulled back to the spectacular view of Sherlock’s pucker wet and red and kiss-abused, Sherlock’s hand flying up and down his own cock, and to Professor Snape’s cock pressing against the back of John’s head. John stuck two of his fingers in his mouth as he turned his head and nuzzled against Snape’s dick, rubbing pre-ejaculate across his cheek. John looked up and over his shoulder at Snape, who was breathing heavily, staring at Sherlock’s groin as his tumescent member throbbed against John’s face.  The scent of Sherlock and Snape was absolutely intoxicating, but John found he wanted very little to do with Snape’s cock.

 John went back to Sherlock and licked his hole once more in a broad, flat stroke and gently probed with his finger. Sherlock accepted him easily, and John withdrew and re-entered, slowly and gently.

Too gently. Too slowly. “John, John, more, I need more, fuck, I need more!” Sherlock whimpered.

John breached him again with two fingers, marvelling at how hot, how tight, how amazing it felt inside Sherlock Holmes. He desperately wanted his mouth on that bundle of nerves again, but it wouldn’t be enough for Sherlock. John leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s perineum again briefly, before a strong hand, not Sherlock’s, pulled his head away. Right, he blocked the Professor’s view.  He looked over his shoulder at his Professor again, who was grinding his teeth in an effort to remain composed, his right hand moving at an even pace with Sherlock’s, his left still on Sherlock’s knee. Fuck, John would do anything for a third hand to jack off with. One hand was still holding Sherlock open enough for full, unfettered access while the other fingered the moaning, sweating boy.

“Fuck, just, curl your fingers, just a little, just a little John, please, please, please,” Sherlock begged. John felt a tiny bundle as he did so, which was evidently a self-destruct button for Sherlock. Sherlock keened pathetically as hips flew upwards, his arse clenched impossibly hard around John’s fingers as he came, spurting hard and high into the air, landing on John’s face and hair. Snape groaned at the same time as he found his release in Sherlock’s, contributing to the mess in John’s hair, and splattering himself against John’s hand trapped between Sherlock’s cheeks.

The violence of Sherlock’s orgasm took John by absolute, complete surprise, and the addition of ejaculate from behind him shocked him further. His some-what free hand (no longer able to hold Sherlock open as he convulsed) flew down to his own, very sad and neglected cock and in one, two, three, four pumps, he also found a violent, sweet release.

Sherlock’s hips finally came down, releasing John’s poor hand from a vice-like grip. John was careful not to pull out too quickly and wiped his fingers off on Sherlock’s shin as his feet slid off the table. Snape sat heavily in John’s chair behind him, and John’s feet were numb from kneeling on that cold, hard floor.

The room was awfully quiet as they composed themselves. Something felt rather off to John. He had had one of the most spectacular orgasms of his life, but he felt awfully... alone, down on the floor.  He looked up at Professor Snape, who was panting, boneless on the small wooden chair, his cock still hanging out of his trousers.

John slowly stood up, and looked at Sherlock. He was breathless and quite debauched with red lips, flushed cheeks, riotous curls splayed across some poor git’s homework on their professor’s desk. John tucked himself away, and without further thought, crawled onto the table. He curled up at Sherlock’s side and stroked the strange, strange boy’s sweaty forehead. There was no response from Sherlock at all. John kissed him gently, on the cheek, on the lips. Sherlock slowly came back to life and kissed John for all he was worth in the silent room. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind the mess on John’s face at all.

 

 

It was late. The two boys walked in silence to the point where they had to depart for the night to their dormitories.

“Wait, Sherlock... can we talk?” John asked.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Sherlock asked. He was completely unreadable.  John didn’t know the right answer to the question.

“Let’s... let’s talk tomorrow. I’m not going to classes tomorrow morning. At all. Um. Where can we meet?” John offered.

“Meet me on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.”  Sherlock directed.

"Oh. And congratulations in quitting the Quidditch team, it wouldn't do to keep boring yourself with it anymore."

He turned and walked swiftly towards the kitchens after his parting shot.

John dragged his feet up the tower and into his dormitory. John wasn’t having second thoughts quitting the team of course, nor about Sherlock, not in the slightest... but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue with Professor Snape as a member of this weird... whatever it was.

Awkward guilt ate at his gut for the rest of the night. He was keen to “seduce” the Potion’s Master with Sherlock in the beginning, _was it really only about a week ago??_ But he never expected for the Potion’s Master to become as involved as he did. He expected more of a fight from him, some mischievous behavior caught out and punished, and detentions, and adrenaline and trying not to get caught (but mostly getting caught). And now that Snape was an active and very willing participant, John lost some of the lust for the game...

But none of his lust for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo. Okay. So, I had a large portion of this written forever ago, but it wasn't until I was getting to the end that, I don't know why, but something changed for me. I never really had a real end-game planned, but I think I've just thrown what I think I HOPED for out the window. Um. Yeaaaah. Chapter 8 is about half way written, aaand you might expect an update in like, 6 months. Because apparently that's just how I roll. Maybe I'll prove myself wrong and update sooner?

**Author's Note:**

> I started posting this earlier and then I decided I hated it, but now I've re-read it and done some editing and don't hate it quite as much. It's still a WIP, but I have quite a bit written at this point. I wrote the boys as 18 years old because I didn't feel comfortable making them 17 even though I know it's the -LEGAL AGE- in the Potter 'Verse. Feel free to imagine them like, 2 months younger to be 17 if you like. 
> 
> *mumblessomethingaboutbeingfullyawarethatthepovjumpsareawkwardbutfuckmanIDKIjustwritethething*
> 
> Written for my Ana. :)


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